Soft
by Super Lizard
Summary: [2005 Movie Based sorry, Wilder fans] Premovie. Willy Wonka discovers very fluffy pink sheep in Mongolia. I'd like to celebrate the opening of this new category.
1. I'd rather not talk about that

Author's Introduction: Greetings, people of the fanfiction world. I, Super Lizard, shake you warmly by the hand, and… erm…

Yes.

This is not about screwing sheep, just so you know, but does refer to the fluffy pink sheep. This is based on the 2005 movie, not the old one or even the book. You may attempt to flog me for it later, but I'll have to warn you, I run awfully fast.

Regarding my other works—no, none of them are finished. Pretty much all of them require one last chapter. Hopefully this will be the same way, and I'll leave all you readers waiting for more.

Hey, better than having too much. Or being covered in molten lava. Being covered in molten lava is in fact _much worse_ than being unfinished.

* * *

I Don't Want To Talk About That One

Flashbacks were becoming a little less common as Willy rid his factory of the last humans. They didn't plague him when there were no suggestions for it. The Oompa Loompas didn't speak to him of their families, and they waited patiently if he seemed to space out in their presence—and they asked no explanations. They were altogether superior to ordinary human workers, and they danced considerably better, as well. Once in awhile, though, he would stop short in the presence of something remotely familiar. Even more occasionally, he would remove himself to his private room for several hours. The Oompa Loompas asked no explanations on this, either, for which Willy was grateful.

One summer, as the year approached his birthday and he became more retrospective than usual, he found himself distracted more and more often. Little things would catch his attention—the way a door closed, or the sound of metal on metal in one of the machines. After a couple weeks of this, he decided to travel again. _Yes, travel will distract me. I love to travel. If only I could avoid those pesky creative leaches that populate this entire rotten planet. _He stood in his unusually decorated private room and studied a globe completely coloured in shades of brown. Tiny red dots indicated cities, and sometimes a number would accompany a place name, referring to a set of notes Wonka had scribed about the region.

He spun the globe and allowed it to come to rest, then randomly examined a land-mass.

_India. No, that definitely did not go well._

He spun the globe again.

_Brazil. No, the coca beans won't be in season for a long while yet, and the mosquitoes there are just unbearable._

Spin.

_Mongolia. Mongolia? The only manner of people that live there are usually private, as long as they're not the government, and they wander around a lot. They shouldn't give me any trouble. I wonder what kinds of not-people things inhabit Mongolia._

Spin.

_No._

Spin.

_No._

Spin.

_Mongolia it is, then._

He wandered over to his desk and hit a button, summoning the Oompa-Loompa chief—er, foreman—to his quarters at the earliest convenience. He scribbled a note in case he had trouble speaking, and ventured over to the telephone in the corner. The contraption was one of the wall-mounted boxes with the bell-shaped receivers. With a deep, anxious breath, he lifted the receiver and put it to his ear, dialling slowly.

Ring… ring…

_So far so good._

Riiiiiing.

_Maybe this isn't such a good ide---_

"Hello, this is Becky with Western Airlines, how may I be of service to you?"

_Uh-oh. _Willy squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself a little. _I haven't spoken to any human since—_

"Hello," he answered mechanically, opening his eyes and reading his previously-scribed note. "My name is Willy Wonka. I will require a private plane on June the seventeenth to take me to Mongolia."

"Ah, Mr. Wonka! It's good to hear from you again. Shall I send the plane to the airport in—"

"No!" he answered as if correcting a fatal mistake in the making. "I mean, no, thank you, have it sent to the factory. There is an airstrip of sufficient size on the property; have your pilot radio my, er, my workers, as he arrives, and they will take care of refuelling and loading the plane. I wish the pilot not to exit the plane while on my property. Can that be arranged?"

He heard a few keys clacking from the other side of the phone. "Yes sir, Mr. Wonka."

"Groovy," he smiled for no one's benefit.

"We have a contract pilot in the area by the name of John Davisson, and his file says he's flown for you before. I have another Western representative contacting now. Will you stay on the line while we confirm a time of arrival?"

"Why yes, thank you Miss Becky."

"I'm going to put you on hold for a moment."

"Right-O."

The hold music came on, and he sighed in relief. He could feel himself shaking, and his hands were past the point of being clammy. His heart began to slow as the telephone stopped requiring that he associate with another person. After awhile, he began to tap his feet a little to the hold music—despite its lack of appeal in the area of melody, it had a catchy rhythm. When the music stopped and Becky's friendly voice started in it's place, he leapt in shock and threw the receiver with a short cry of distress.

The receiver clattered against the wall, and he backed away several steps, regarding it wide-eyed. He reached out carefully and retrieved the telephone and placed it to his ear. "I-I-I'm sorry. Hello again."

A smiling voice greeted him. "Nothing to worry about, Mr. Wonka. Mr. Davisson says he can be there at six A.M. tomorrow, and that he won't disembark from the plane on your property, according to your wishes."

"Th-th-thank you," Willy exalted. "That's fantastic. Is the factory address still on record?"

"Yes, sir."

"You can send the invoice there."

"Wonderful. Good to do business with you, Mr. Wonka."

"You too thank you buh-bye," he hurriedly finished, dropping the receiver back on the hook. He backed away from the telephone unit and collapsed into his armchair, shaking and hyperventilating. He hated speaking to people. He hated people with every bit of his being. He knew that eventually, he'd have to get over it, but for now the sound of another human voice caused him to panic and seek a hiding place. He felt very, very cold.

_Nice headgear, Willy._

_Your daddy's crazy, my momma says he pulls teeth for fun._

_Some boys are allergic to chocolate, Willy. It makes their noses itch. Wouldn't want to take that chance, now would we?_

_Willy, you're so weird, what's the matter with you? Weirdo, weirdo Willy Wonka, never will be normal._

_Nobody likes you, Willy, you're too weird._

He pressed his gloved hands over his ears and pulled his knees up to his chin, curling up into a little ball. _Leave me alone._

_Go away, Weirdo Willy._

_Weirdo Willy!_

_Nuh-uh, _he protested mentally, squeezing his eyes shut. _Stop it, leave me alone. I went away, now you go away! You're all so mean, leave me alone!_

_Weirdo Willy Wonka, with metal round his honker, can't eat candy 'cause his daddy told him that he oughn't-a_.

"Stop it!"

He regained mental silence as his own voice echoed back to him. His throat felt raw and overused. He wondered how long he'd been screaming.

For a moment he sat very still, regaining his breath and calming his palpitating heart. He needed to get out of… he needed to get out.

A knock on the door interrupted his jumbled thoughts.

"Mmm," he groaned, peeling himself out of his armchair and went to open the door, automatically facing the floor as he did.

The Oompa-Loompa foreman gazed up at him seriously.

Wonka made a series of hand-gestures, clicks, and odd noises, effectively communicating his departure and the need for a crew to prep an aircraft for departure.

The Oompa-Loompa replied by crossing his arms over his chest, then snapping them down at his sides and bowing.

Wonka did the same, then grinned and waved goodbye to the little man, who scurried off to gather a crew. The taller of the two closed the door and returned to his armchair, curling up and giving in to the exhaustion that traditionally follows anxiety attacks.

_Lumpy,_ he mentally complained at the side of the armchair that met his face. _Not soft. I wish something was_—a yawn interrupted his thoughts—_soft._


	2. Flashback

Wonka stood in the highest room in the highest tower that wasn't a smoke stack. The walls were lined with Oompa-Loompa sized consoles on the bottom half, and windows on the top. This room was the factory's air traffic control tower, usually employed on shipment days to receive ingredients and ship out the end product, but today it was geared up to receive a smallish passenger aircraft. The pilot was chattering in badly-constructed Oompa-Loompanese sentences, but his meaning was conveyed. He was landing, and he sent his regards to Mr. Wonka.

As the plane touched the runway, Willy Wonka straightened his tall hat and nodded goodbye to his crustacean-heighted crew. He took the elevator to the ground floor and threw the open the doors to the runway, making a grand exit onto the weather-darkened pavement. Ever since he had fired the last of his human crew members, the pavement and bricks of his factory had faded from its original brilliant white. The rate of deterioration, oddly, matched his increasing intolerance for human contact.

Oompa-Loompas wheeled step units up to the plane, carried fuel hoses and luggage, and busied themselves preparing for their boss's departure. Each of them took the time to pause and bow to Wonka, wishing him a happy journey in their strange language.

Willy climbed the steps to the aircraft's passenger hatch, taking a moment to wave goodbye at the back windows, where his strange gaggle of employees gathered, watching him leave. With a deep breath and an unusual smile, he entered the plane.

"Hello, Mr. Davisson!" he greeted cheerfully.

"Hello, Mr. Wonka." There was a pause. "You remembered my name! Thank you!"

Willy smiled nervously, making his way to the passenger compartment. _So far, so good. Now just get me to Mongolia without too much chatter._

"The scullery in the back has all kinds of interesting things this trip," Davisson notified his passenger. "Western stocked a sample of some of the more unusual prepacked food, along with some things they thought you might find more palatable."

"How, uh, thoughtful of them," he replied with a half-smile. _No such luck._

"Your crew has cleared us for take off; please be seated and put on your belt. I'll turn off the light when we're aloft." The unseen pilot finished his shouted-from-the-cockpit conversation and concentrated on the take-off as Wonka obediently sat and fastened his safety belt.

The flight was a long, quiet ride. The scenery of the nearly absurd altitude at which they travelled aloft was nothing but clouds and more clouds—as exciting as the unusual view was, even Willy Wonka's child-like wonder waned after many hours. He finished off a few books on Mongolia, and started reading another regarding the chemical structure of taste and how to affect it by using synthetic components. He shortly became disgusted with the ideology behind the book and left it behind the seat. Four more hours of staring out the window, and he was sleeping like a baby. He awoke for barely a few minutes when the craft stopped to refuel in Hawaii, and again in Okinawa.

"Mr. Wonka?" a voice called him, reaching invasively into his dreams. "Mr. Wonka, we're here."

His eyes drifted open sluggishly, and he observed Mr. Davisson standing at a polite distance—in the entrance to the passenger compartment. He seemed a little fearful, but more than that, he seemed—

"There's a guide waiting on the ground for you, but if you like, I can send him away. You look like you could use a few days rest. I'd… I'd be happy to call and arrange a stay at a hotel or something." Davisson bit the inside of his lower lip, fretting over the pale man.

_Concerned? _"No, but thank you," Willy told him graciously. "I'm quite ready to be moving." He stood up perhaps a little quickly, and took a moment to regain his balance after such a long flight. The flightmust have taken atleast fourteen hours. "What time is it?" he asked, scrunching his eyebrows together and frowning.

"Late evening, local time. The flight took about fifteen hours and twenty minutes."

"Quite a nap, then!" Willy grinned thinly and nodded. _Why didn't landing wake me up? Why is he still standing between me and the door? _

Mr. Davisson nodded back after a moment, and exited the plane in front of his passenger.

Mongolia was mountains and yellowed grassland. The chosen landing strip was remote on purpose—the chocolatier didn't want anyone, anywhere, anyhow to know that he wasn't guarding his factory. For all the rest of the world knew, he was still in his fortress, making candy.

But Willy loved to travel.

The Mongolian guide in question was hovering near the step unit, picking his nose. Willy wrinkled his nose momentarily, then descended to the pavement and retrieved his small cart of luggage. They walked silently to the tiny shack of an airport, stopped only by a half-asleep agent who boredly checked Willy's passport. The guide had waiting for them two of the strangest looking animals Willy had ever seen—and he had seen a lot of strange animals.

"Llamas," the guide explained.

"These aren't like any llamas I've ever seen," Willy noticed. "They're _orange._"

The guide ignored his charge's amusement and hefted Willy's pack onto the llama, then offered a hand to help him onto its back.

Unsure, he climbed atop the brilliantly coloured llama and took the reigns.

His guide did the same, and started off. Without any cue from Wonka, the llama lurched forward to follow the first one. "What is it you wish to see, Mr. Wonka?"

He tilted his head back and to the angle, looking around. "I read that there is a strange set of mountains here that are very cold during the winter, but accessible during the summer."

The guide seemed uneasy, but assented. "I will take you to these mountains. My English is very limited, so I am sorry, but we cannot talk very much."

"That's good," Willy replied, thankful that his association with the guide could be limited.

* * *

They travelled on the road for a few hours, then switched to dirt paths. The view was amazing—without dense trees or civilization, the rocky grasslands stretched out into forever. Strangely enough, vanished were the few buildings served by the airport. By the time they stopped for the night, the only sources of light were the lantern the guide carried, and the moon and stars. Camp consisted of two low sheepskin tents and some fur blankets. The llamas slept huddled together outside. The night was surprisingly cold, despite the season.

Travel was quiet. Once in awhile, the guide would pause to point out an interesting geographical landmark, a village of nomadic shepherds, or an animal particular to the Mongolian countryside. Other than that, few words passed between them. Willy was content. The guide was only slightly puzzled by his charge's tendency to stop and taste random things—plants, berries, and sometimes the odd root. The Mongolian was amazed that the chocolatier passed over the poisonous varieties by instinct.

On the third day, they arrived at the mountains requested. The mountains ended in the clouds; almost half of them were covered in snow and ice. Willy's sharp eyes picked out strangely coloured shapes meandering about.

"These are the mountains where the coloured breed of llamas came from. There are strange animals on this mountain, not all of them docile."

"Can we go up?" he asked, thoroughly curious.

The guide snorted. "_You _can, if you want, but I will wait here. These mountains are dangerous. The animals on this mountain are dangerous."

Willy was already checking the machete at his side and the knives strapped to his boots. "How many days supplies do we have individually?"

"Four days left, sir," the guide answered.

"Oh good. Wait for me here."

The guide paled. "You… you will go up the mountain? By yourself?"

"Yes," he answered confidently.

The guide snorted and muttered something in Mongolian.

Willy rolled his eyes. "If I'm not back by tomorrow, go wherever you want. The money is waiting for you in the form of a wired check back at the airport."

"Yes sir, Mr. Wonka," the Mongolian wheeled his llama around to find a decent camp site. "Whatever you say. Ai, wait. Do not take the llama much into the snow. It only has its winter coat."

"Right then," he said, more to the llama than to the guide. "Let's hit the road."

* * *

Two days later, Willy Wonka was hopelessly lost. He'd reached the snowy portion of the mountain a few hours into the ride, and let his llama make its way back to the guide. On foot, he'd managed to wander deep into the icy portion of the mountains. Usually, his sense of direction was enough to take him back home; thus, he didn't worry too much about where he was going. Usually, he would make good enough time on the return trip that he could carry just enough supplies; thus, he only took about a day's worth of food and water with him. This trip was anything but usual.

On his return trip, he spotted a tuft of orange fur on a sharp rock. The trail of orange fur, he reasoned, ought to lead him back down the mountain on the same path his llama took. After a full day of following this trail, he still could not see the grasslands or anything but mountain and rocky ravine. He knew the guide would be gone by now. The snow on the mountain would be enough in the way of water, but food would be a problem on the way home. He naturally ate very little, so he could stretch what he had.

Nearing sunset on the second day, Willy was wandering in the ice again, attempting to retrace his steps. He walked with his head to the ground, looking for any evidence of where he had been; all he saw were animal tracks. Some of them looked less like hooves and more like claws. This made him a little nervous; he kept his machete at hand.

A tuft of pink fur waved at him from a gnarled shrub growing from under a ledge. In the dim light of the sunset, Willy had nearly missed it. He stopped for a moment, curiosity overcoming his concern, and he loosed it from its perch. He ran the fur between his fingers, marvelling. _Soft. So soft. Nothing is ever—_his mind wandered, encouraged by his exhaustion.

His father was never a man given to comfort. Everything in the house was wood or stone or metal. Utilitarian, he had called it. It had purpose. Everything had to have a purpose, an order, a reason. Willy later wagered the death of his mother had caused this reaction, but as he could not remember his mother, he didn't know if she had been keen on fluffy things. He only remembered a photograph of her in a pink angora sweater, and vaguely he remembered the feel of the sweater against his tiny infant hands_. Soft. So soft. _The memory was so distant, it was like a dream. He couldn't remember anything else associated with the meaning soft; later in life, he sought out corduroys and velvets and fuzzy fabrics with which to fill his personal wardrobe, but he avoided angora almost subconsciously. The fur he held between his thumb and forefinger now was as soft as his memory of his mother. He gazed at it absently.

Suddenly, a purpose took him. He had to find the animal that created that fur. He had to find it, and maybe capture one to live in the factory. Something in his insides was gnawing at him, screaming at him to find the owner of that fur.

Before he could move, three hundred pounds of claws and fangs landed on him with the force of a mac truck. He went down, surprised, and flailed wildly in his own defense. The attacker, a huge grey-and-deep blue cat-like animal, snarled savagely and struck at him with talons like razors. Pinned and unable to move efficiently, he took a blow from his right shoulder to mid-chest. Hollaring something hellish, he heaved his free arm and the machete up to cut across the animal's face and neck. It yelped and retreated a few steps, dripping blood but seething in anger. Willy ditched his pack and rolled to his side and pushed himself to his feet, holding his left arm to his chest to gauge the damage—a bleeder, but nothing he couldn't bandage.

The cat-thing ran forward again, fangs flashing, and reared up to swat at its prey with both front paws. It missed the first time as Willy scrambled back, swinging in return, but was rewarded the second time as Willy's attempted dodge ended up as a trip.

Willy hit the ground hard, grunting in pain and smacking his head hard against a rock.

The creature moved eagerly towards its dazed target, the smell of blood pulling at its nostrils. It licked its blue-furred lips and growled, placing a paw on both of Willy's shoulders and lowering its jaws for the kill.

Willy's head swam. His vision was nothing but swimming shadows and dimmer darkness, but he dully felt a weight on his shoulders and smelled rank breath on his face. Ignoring the pain in his chest, he stabbed upward with the machete, sinking it into the creature's neck.

It didn't flail or anything; it just ceased moving and sank onto the supine figure beneath it.

_Ow… hurts… I can't…_ He lost consciousness.


	3. Security Blanket

Surprisingly, he lived to wake up. His eyes fluttered open as his brain registered a pounding headache and the unignorable feel of something crushing him. He rallied his exhausted frame to push the creature off of him, wincing as pain shot across his chest. He groaned and lay still, concentrating on breathing for several moments. Noting the dryness of his throat, he pushed himself onto his side and reached for his pack where it had fallen, fumbling weakly for the canteen. After some time, he had it in his grasp and opened; he enjoyed half of it, then sat up and set the canteen aside.

_Not…cool. Definitely not cool. I must have been out overnight, maybe two nights._

He manoeuvred his left hand around to peel the fabric of his clothes away from the claw wounds on his right side. He poured the rest of his water over the wounds and allowed it to wash away the dirt, fur, and dried blood. It stung anew and began to bleed, but Willy took that as a good sign.

_Get up, _he told himself. _Get up and get moving. You smell of blood. You're going to attract all kinds of nasty critters that will want to eat you._

It didn't work. In spite of his mental efforts, his body did not move. He rolled his chin onto his collarbone and allowed himself a few tears of exasperation. _Maybe… maybe if I just rest for a little while… _

He drifted in and out of consciousness, with no awareness of the time that passed aside from the demands of his stomach. He managed to open his pack at one point and force down some of the food supplies he had left; the pain in his stomach ceded to the pain in his shoulder and head.

His mind registered something between pain and hopelessness. He was lying against something _soft._ He snuggled closer to it and buried his left hand in whatever it was, mumbling unintelligibly. _Warm. Warm and soft. M…ma… mama? _He whimpered pitifully and curled up against it._ Am I dead? If death is warm and soft, boy did I have the wrong ideas about it!_ His eyebrows knit together. _If I'm dead, why does my shoulder hurt? And why am I so thirsty?_

Willy forced open his eyes to gaze directly into the face of the fluffiest pink sheep he had ever seen. He was resting against its side—it lie next to him and allowed itself to be used as a pillow, completely disregarding the blood. It returned his gaze and gently nuzzled his forehead.

"You're not my mother," he slurred, amused and vaguely disappointed.

It bleated softly at him in response.

Other pink sheep were collecting nearby; the carcass of the cat-like creature was gone, probably removed by scavenger birds. A herd of friendly-looking sheep was a definite improvement on the former company.

With a solemn frown and an experimental sniff, the sheep he was hugging licked his forehead.

With an even more solemn frown and an indignant sniff, Willy Wonka licked the sheep back. What he tasted shocked him. He licked it again. _Cotton candy. Only better._ Willy began to giggle to himself. _I found it. This is what I was looking for._

The sheep bleated quietly and set its head down on its forelegs, dozing quietly. Willy took its example and slept more soundly than he had for many years.

When he awoke, the pounding in his head had subsided. The herd of sheep were all grazing nearby or still slumbering peacefully. He sat up and ran his hand over the fur of his makeshift pillow. The sheep looked over at him curiously and snorted.

Willy smiled a little gently removed the shed wool that stuck to his hand, rolling it up into a ball and munching on it gratefully. His sheep stood up and moved over to him, attempting to eat his hair in return. Willy laughed a little and swatted at it playfully. "Hey--! No, quit that!" As the sheep moved a ways off to nibble on some stunted shrubs, the man took his first aide kit from his pack and set about carefully bandaging his shoulder. That done, he scooped up a little of the snow that was nearby with his canteen, then held it against himself to melt it. He didn't get as much water from this action as he wanted, but it was certainly as much as he needed.

Beside them, the herd began moving away. Willy's sheep head-butted his good side and snorted at him.

Willy tried to push himself onto his feet, but a wave of dizziness overtook him; he sank back down, his left hand pressed against the wound on his chest. The sheep continued pushing him insistently. "I can't," he told it, trying nonetheless to stand.

The sheep, seeming to accept this, moved around in front of him and leaned sideways.

He crinkled his eyebrows, confused, and set his hand on the sheep's side. "What? No, don't sit on me!"

It bleated at him loudly, sounding annoyed. It sank onto its belly and sat there staring at him impatiently.

Experimentally, Willy flung one arm over the sheep's back. It stood up, taking him with it, most of the way up to his feet. The sheep stepped sideways, pushing the man against the wall. He supported himself on the stones, and straightened the rest of the way. With one hand on the back of the sheep's shoulders, he found himself able to maintain his footing and walk a little ways. The sheep seemed content to travel in this unsteady manner, halting when its adopted human needed to stop, and starting when he was again able to travel. In this way, the entire herd made it to the lower half of the mountain.

Willy spotted a familiar orange llama grazing near the foot of the mountain, and tugged on the sheep's fur, encouraging it to descend the rest of the way to the grasslands. The other sheep, as sheep will do, followed the leader.

As soon as he stepped off the mountain path, the orange llama meandered over to him and stared at him expectantly. Willy noticed that the llama still carried a pack of supplies and, stuck to the pack, a square of paper. With some difficulty, he retrieved the square of paper and unfolded it.

_William Wonka;_

_I left the day after you told me to leave. This llama has two days' supplies. I will make it to the shepherds' village and restock on my way home. Hopefully you are well if you read this._

"Well, that's just spectacular!" he said to no one. One handed-ly, he opened the pack and retrieved a bit of the trail rations and a spare canteen of water. "Mmm, almost as good as chocolate." He munched the stale trail bread and shared some with his sheep. The water he kept for himself, as none of his fluffy friends seemed interested. "Oh, that's right!" he exclaimed. "You're made of sugar wool, you'd just melt, wouldn't you?"

The sheep bleated at him with a tone that he could have sworn was "Of course, stupid."

He grinned and stood up, feeling better now that he was on his way home. "Who wants to come and live in a factory?" he asked, not really caring if the sheep responded. His adopted sheep stood obediently next to his llama, waiting. He took some rope from the llama's pack and tied three of the sheep in the manner of a leash, then climbed atop his llama and took the reigns. The other sheep, as sheep will do, followed the leader.

* * *

An orange llama, a half-dead chocolatier, and a small herd of very fluffy pink sheep travelled down the barely-paved road towards the airport. The guide caught up with them halfway down the street, expressing all kinds of happiness and a great deal of wonder regarding his attaining of the sheep and his return from the mountain.

"I have never seen sheep such as these, how did you find them? And how is it that they will all follow you, even those not tied? How did you survive the mountains?"

Willy slid off the llama and wobbled for a moment, still unsteady on his feet. "Could you send a message to John Davisson, care of Western Airlines?"

"Yes!"

"Tell him that Willy Wonka needs a ride home, and that he'll need an airplane capable of carrying livestock in the form of eight sheep."

"Anything you need, sir," the guide agreed enthusiastically. "Anything else, sir?"

Willy leaned against the llama and noted his own smell. "I'll need a doctor and a bath," he decided. "I smell awful."

The guide grinned widely. "That you do, sir! Right away, sir! Follow me."

The guide took him to what appeared to be a temporary home made of wood and hides—indeed, it was the guide's own summer dwelling. The children that came running out of the tent-home followed the guide's orders to herd the sheep and the llama into the pen with the other livestock, then remained outside. One of them ran off in the direction of town to retrieve a doctor and send Wonka's message.

The guide's wife appeared from nowhere, guiding Willy to sit on a pile of fuzzy grey sheepskins and be still. He did her one better and collapsed, grateful (for once) to be back in the realm of civilization. He would have been happier at home in his factory, but for the options open to him, he was more than happy to be lying on a pile of smelly animal skins in the middle of Mongolia.

The 'doctor' awoke him, sat him up, and removed the old bandages. With a wince of disgust and a few words in Mongolian, he applied some unfamiliar sort of salve to the wound.

"The healer says the wound is infected," the guide translated. "He applied a medicine to it, and he wants to sew it up."

Willy winced at the idea of someone putting a needle and thread through his flesh. "Ugh, no."

"Mr. Wonka, this has to be done; if the wound continues to bleed—"

"It's already been bleeding for almost a week already," he informed the guide matter-of-factly. "And if a needle has to be put through my flesh, I'll do it myself, thank you."

"But Mr. Wonka—"

"Nuh-uh. Shut up. Give me that needle." He held out his hand to the healer and lifted his chin expectantly.

Uncertain, the healer dropped the needle and stitch onto the outstretched hand and watched in shock as Willy Wonka sewed up all three gashes in his chest.

Satisfied with the stitch work, Willy nodded to the healer.

The healer reluctantly wrapped bandages around the wounds.

"Thanks doc," Willy told him.

The guide and the healer exchanged words, then a few coins; the healer left with several backward glances.

"Did you send your boy to town with my telephone message?" Willy asked the guide cheerfully.

"Yes sir," the guide replied.

"That's two out of three," he rejoiced. "That's pretty good. How about that bath?"

The guide spoke to his wife for a moment, then the woman dashed out of the hut to fill a metal tub in the yard behind. "Mr. Wonka, I am amazed that you survived those mountains, especially alone. Your name will be contained in stories in this village for a very long time."

Willy smirked. "Wonderful!"

"Sir, I will prepare something better than trail rations. They will be done by the time you are finished with your bath."

His smile widened, but he made no reply.

The guide exited the tent-house and started a cooking fire. Willy laid back against the skins and dozed quietly. After awhile, the guide's wife shook him awake gently.

Willy cried out in fright and moved away quickly, throwing his hands between himself and his perceived assailant. The woman backed away, just as startled, crying apologies in a language he didn't understand.

It took a moment to calm himself and the woman down, but she eventually led him to the back of the yard, where a small fire burned next to a metal tub filled with water. She gave him a woven wool towel-blanket-thing and a handful of chunks of soap, then bowed and left him to his privacy.

Twenty minutes and a good bit of effort later, Willy managed to scrub himself clean without getting water on his bandages. He spread the wool towel-blanket on the ground and sat next to the small fire to dry off, using the opportunity to wash out his clothes as well. As soon as he was dry and garbed, he wrapped the wool towel-blanket around his shoulders and returned to the tent. The guide presented him with a wooden plate covered in rice and topped with what he assumed was roasted sheep of some sort. He finished it eagerly and thanked his hosts profusely. They let him sleep in the corner on a pile of skins until the plane arrived; when it had, they cheerfully saw him (and his small heard of insanely fluffy pink sheep) to the tiny airport.

It was altogether more attention than he was used to. He thanked them and even shook hands with them, then escaped to the aircraft and collapsed on the first passenger seat he sighted.

"Glad to see you okay," Mr. Davisson greeted him, sounding genuinely relieved. "Looks like you maybe should have taken the time in the hotel, eh?"

Willy grinned at him tolerantly. "I wouldn't have done that for the world. I mean, how often is it that you find a heard of pink sheep?"

Davisson laughed. "Not very often at all, sir. Let's get you home."

"Sweeter words, I've never heard," he confirmed, drifting off to sleep with a huge yawn. _Mph. Lumpy. Not soft._

* * *

He awoke as the plane set down at the factory. Oompa-Loompas swarmed over the runway, gathering the herd of pink sheep and moving them to a controlled area off to the side as Willy disembarked and waved goodbye to the pilot. He dragged himself across the pavement to the factory building, the Oompa-Loompa foreman walking along next to him at an easy pace.

"Have a pen built for those sheep. Feed them sugar grass and sweet bread, but _don't _expose them to water. As soon as the pens are built, sheer the sheep and save the wool. Bring one sheep's worth to my quarters, and stack the rest in the invention room. I'm going to my quarters to clean up and think."

The Oompa-Loompa expressed an affirmative and dashed off to put the orders into effect.

"Hey, wait," Willy requested. "I met a family in Mongolia who were just awesome to me. See if you can't get in touch with…"

* * *

Two days later, another plane landed in a remote corner of Mongolia—making it the busiest year of air-traffic the tiny airstrip had ever seen. Delivery men appeared at the summer dwelling of Willy Wonka's guide, and delivered a letter.

_Dear Kind Souls;_

_Herein included is a wire transfer order for two hundred thousand tugriks, payable by the company stand at the airport. These boxes constitute a standard shipment of Wonka Bars, at least enough to last you and your family two years. Thank you so much for your help. Please don't require your children to floss._

_Willy Wonka_

The guide read the letter a second time, then wrinkled his eyebrows in mild confusion and gratefulness.

* * *

On the other side of the world, Willy Wonka was spinning sheep wool into cotton candy. Every bit of fluff was collected and spun— except for the set that he secretly had woven into the softest, warmest, fluffiest, and most embarrassingly _pink_ blanket in the world. When the nightmares or voices tried again to assault his mind, Willy would wrap himself in the fluffy sheep's wool and his sleep would be sound and unbothered.

But, to himself, he swore on his factory that he'd never reveal to anyone that he had a security blanket.


End file.
